


Like a Grasping Soul

by So_Ill_Continue



Series: Shiro, Alive [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (only slightly), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Graphic Description of Injury, Greater than Cannon-Typical Violence, Shiro (Voltron) Whump, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Violence, Whump, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_Ill_Continue/pseuds/So_Ill_Continue
Summary: Shiro meets Commander Sendak and sells another piece of himself to his captors.He’s still worried about leaving Matt, still worried about his final destination (will it somehow be worse? Could it possibly be better?), when something of a luxury is suddenly within his grasp. True, the wall in front of him is too darkly pigmented to act as a real mirror. Yet Shiro can still make out the outline of a body, the greasy mess of grown-out hair, the pair of wide eyes peaking over a bloody, medieval-style muzzle. The harried purple covering he was assigned hangs strangely on his body, strikingly taunt in some places while disturbingly empty in others; an odd mix of emaciated and muscled, of being in both the best and worst shape of his life. There’s just no fat left on his body, only powerful blocks of muscle, and he feels more like a souped-up engine than an actual human person. He’s too big. He looks like a monster.
Relationships: Matt Holt & Shiro, Sendak & Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Shiro, Alive [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809898
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Like a Grasping Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is slightly cannon divergent in the sense that, although Shiro has fought in the Arena and acquired the moniker "Champion," he and Matt have not yet been separated.

This feeling, this post-Arena crawling-out-of-his skin feeling…it’s not the worst. It’s not the horrified shame of being strapped down naked to the Butcher’s table. It’s not the whiplash betrayal of realizing his greatest achievement was also his worst mistake. It’s not the blind, clawing panic of the Witch’s leer on his back, on his face and in his tissues. It’s not the helpless, miserable nothing of holding Matt back as his father – their fearless Commander – is Awayed.

It’s not the worst feeling, being torn between lingering adrenaline and bone-deep fatigue, the tacky sensation of drying blood, the hot-cold waves slithering under his skin, the ache of creaking ribs, the bite of the manacles behind his back – but he thinks it probably should be. It’s the feeling of Death, of a death that wasn’t his, but one he claimed anyway. Of a death he sliced and deceived and punched until it fit in the palm of his hand. Of his death, even if he’s still breathing, even if it wasn’t his Death.

But it’s not the worst feeling, no matter how much he wishes it were, and he tries not to wonder if that makes him a monster.

Instead, he focuses on what’s ahead of him, on the muzzle that’s not made for his human face, on the lead that begins under his nose and ends in the hands of the Arena runner. This runner - he’s not one Shiro recognizes, not that there’s a great many he knows. He isn’t quite as tall as Rornok or as smarmy as Monpay or as viciously gleeful as Avton, and that means he’s a new face for Shiro.

But Shiro should have been focusing less on this new runner and more on where he was being run to, because it’s with sudden alarm that he realizes they’ve passed the hall to his cell.

On instinct, Shiro digs his heels in, widening his stance and yanking his head (and the lead) back. The runner tugs on the leash without turning around, but when the first few yanks get no response, he turns to pin Shiro with an irritated look. It’s not quite a snarl, but it’s close, and the runners don’t need to be highly ranked to make a prisoner’s life hell.

Shiro immediately cows, his shoulders curling in and his stance narrowing. He ducks his head, just for a moment, just to demonstrate that he doesn’t want to make trouble, but then meets the runner’s eyes again with a flick of his chin behind him. They need to go back, they’ve missed a turn. His cell is that way.

The runner’s purple lips twitch in annoyance, and he fortifies his grip on the lead without breaking eye contact, wraps it round and round his palm, before whipping it forward in a forceful wrench. Shiro’s pulled forward by the muzzle, and he stumbles a few steps before he can regain his balance. He grunts through his teeth, the ache in his jaw blooming into something close to agony.

But he tries again, stubborn bastard that he is, he tries again. Because his cell is that way, and Matt is too, and he is supposed to go back to his cell after he fights. The only other place they take him to is the Butcher’s table, but he isn’t damaged enough for that. He aches and he smarts and his right wrist might be sprained but he isn’t going to die, so he is supposed to go to his cell.

He still hasn’t broken eye contact, and he knows that’s a risk (it’s more than a risk, it’s stupidly reckless, just this side of begging for a beating), but he’s desperate. It’s frustratingly simple, the message he’s struggling to convey. Two seconds without a muzzle and it’d be out there, _Wrong way,_ but the thought is caught behind his clamped teeth and forced to bounce inside his brain instead.

The Galran’s expression doesn’t change, frozen in the same look of mild annoyed exasperation that Shiro might direct at a wad of gum on his shoe, but Shiro’s almost instinctively aware that his situation is getting exceptionally dangerous. So, with great reluctance, he finally lowers his head, leveling his gaze instead on the metallic floor between them. It’s the smart thing to do, he knows, if he wants to avoid a painful reassertion of dominance (which he does, obviously); but more than that, it’s probably what’s more likely to give him what he wants too. Shiro hasn’t been on this ship long, but it’s remarkable the speed with which one can learn when pure brutality is in play. He’s found that the response to rebelliousness is automatic – and painful - but show a little respect and submission and the soldier might just start to think. Even so, the shift is a method, not a message, and he still twitches his head in the needed direction. _Please, I’m sorry, we’ve gone the wrong way._

Eyes downcast as they are, Shiro can’t prepare for the monstrous fist that smashes into the back of his skull, right on top of metal strip that keeps the muzzle in place. It sends him crashing to the floor, unable to catch himself, and he lands face-first. His nose crunches under the muzzle’s heavy hinge, stars erupt, and his mouth is filled with blood he can’t spit out. Shiro moans blood and spit onto the floor, briefly overcome with pain, while the runner grumbles something in Galran he can’t understand.

With something between a grunt and a growl, the runner wraps one meaty, clawed paw around the nape of his neck and hauls him upward. For a moment, his toes leave the ground and Shiro’s dangling like a naughty kitten, but soon he’s dropped back into his feet. He nearly falls with the force of it, head spinning from whiplash; only now does he have time to register the tiny pinpricks of pain erupting where the runner’s nails pierced fragile skin.

The runner doesn’t have to yank on his leash again; he simply turns on his heel and starts walking in the same direction as before, and Shiro stumbles to keep up. Blood dribbles from between his lips, leaking sluggishly from the cage smashing his cheeks against his teeth. His nose is clogged too; thick, scarlet bubbles popping on the metal grate as he’s forced to continue breathing through the mangled organ. His eyes sting, but he sweat a lot in the Arena and they don’t keep him well-hydrated to begin with, so actual tears aren’t forthcoming. It’s shitty as far as silver linings go, he knows, but it’s there and Shiro is just broken enough to feel a little grateful.

Once he’s gotten the pain under control – because God, does it hurt, and it feels like he’s snorting blood straight into his brain every time he inhales – he is free to begin worrying. (Not that he ever _isn’t_ worrying, because there’s always the next fight, the next opponent, and Commander Holt is gone, and Matt isn’t getting enough to eat, and his shock braces were taken, and will he ever see Earth again? See Keith again? Will he ever-) But he can think over the pain now, so he worries. Worries that they’re taking him somewhere new, somewhere even worse; that he’s already had his last moments with Matt, although neither of them knew it. Just the thought threatens to break him completely, shatter him into a million little jagged pieces to be swept up and out an airlock.

But Shiro’s a stubborn bastard (even when he doesn’t know it, or, better: _especially_ when he doesn’t know it), and he never learns, and he only realizes that he wasn’t paying any attention to his surroundings when he nearly runs into the runner’s stationary back. He doesn’t – thankfully – but he dodges that beating with barely an inch to spare, scuttling backwards a few paces before the runner can turn to see. But the runner doesn’t bother turning – he’s too busy holding his palm against what could only be a scanner, before removing his hand to tap a sequence into the glass. Shiro blinks; the scanner isn’t a new occurrence – they’re posted outside nearly every door – but the tapping is. It’s certainly higher security than normal, but not so high for a dirt-hauling runner to know. Which means…what exactly?

Shiro doesn’t know.

Blood rolls from his chin, landing with a sharp _ping!_ below, and it strikes him amid his pondering that he can actually hear something so subtle. The slave stalls are always filled with noise: sobs and moans and utterly alien noises he can’t begin to decipher the meaning of, the thud of a baton against flesh or the raucous chatter of the guards; something. The Arena is even louder, and hell, even the five-month trip inside the _Erudite V_ had a constant background of beeps, rumbles, and creaks when Matt would shut up long enough to hear them.

And just like that, his thoughts once more come grinding to a halt. Matt – his shift as petty medic would be over in less than an hour, assuming his weasel of a boss didn’t hold him after again. What would he think, coming back to an empty cell? What would he do?

The possibilities are horrifying as they are endless, but the door is already opening, and Shiro isn’t given enough time to fully unravel. Instead, he has just long enough for his heart rate to spike before he’s pulled in.

For one truly baffling moment, Shiro concludes that he’s just been marched into an empty broom closet and he almost giggles at the absurdity - because, fuck, he remembers doing some things in closets, and an awful lot of them involve his tongue. But the cool nudge of a blaster rifle in his left kidney quickly knocks that urge out of his system, as does the gentle swoop of motion beneath his feet. The memory falls away, replaced by a realization: they’re in an elevator.

But it’s not like any Earth elevator he’s seen. For one, there aren’t any buttons on the inside – just three indigo tinted metal walls and, although he can no longer see it, the door behind him. For another, they don’t immediately turn around to face the entrance, like it is inexplicably done in both Japan and the United States, and presumably the rest of the (his) world. It also moves differently – the ride is incredibly smooth after liftoff, but Shiro still occasionally senses slight pivots that send them in directions other than up and down.

He’s still worried about leaving Matt, still worried about his final destination (will it somehow be worse? Could it possibly be better?), when something of a luxury is suddenly within his grasp. True, the wall in front of him is too darkly pigmented to act as a real mirror. Yet Shiro can still make out the outline of a body, the greasy mess of grown-out hair, the pair of wide eyes peaking over a bloody, medieval-style muzzle. The harried purple covering he was assigned hangs strangely on his body, strikingly taunt in some places while disturbingly empty in others; an odd mix of emaciated and muscled, of being in both the best and worst shape of his life. There’s just no fat left on his body, only powerful blocks of muscle, and he feels more like a souped-up engine than an actual human person. He’s too big. He looks like a monster.

There’s no sense of slowing, but Shiro registers a slight clicking sound before the wall in front of him parts as it begins to slide away, slowly enough to get his heart pounding once more.

He isn’t sure what to expect on the other side. More slave cells wouldn’t be a surprise – his block is huge (he’s seen at least eighty multi-person cells in it himself), but he suspects it’s still nothing in comparison to the whole. It could also be an examination room, like the one he and the Holts were transported to when they were first captured, or a medic’s room (although he knows the way to the Butcher, and this certainly isn’t it), or a room filled with those freezing, claustrophobic tubes that he rarely remembers entering but always leaves healed, shivering, and exhausted. It could be anything, really, but Shiro is still caught off guard when he finally sees it.

The runner shoves him forward and he’s suddenly standing in an opulent room. It’s set to tones of dark gray and purple, accented with white and shining silver. It’s impressive - would be even if his standards hadn’t been pounded into the dirt since his capture - but Shiro doesn’t waste time on the elegant décor or architecture. No, his eyes are on the seemingly mile-long table halving the room – or, more specifically, the steaming pile of roast-something at the closest end.

Hunger has become his constant companion since entering this acid trip of a nightmare, although it’s been a largely quiet one. Sure, the first few days (or weeks, there is no way to tell; no daylight means no certainty) were difficult. He had to learn to stomach the chalky mush served to the slaves, but that actually didn’t take long (starvation does wonders to a picky palate, turns out). His head hurt a lot and his stomach roiled with nausea whenever it wasn’t cramping itself into knots. He snapped at his crewmates over stupid things, like Matt’s humming or Commander Holt’s pacing, even though the tics never bothered him before. His hands started to shake at the end of the day.

Eventually, they more or less acclimated. The hunger morphed from an all-consuming beast into a distant pang, there and angry but far from raging. Do his hands still shake? Sometimes, depending on the rigor of the day. Is he still losing weight? He doesn’t have a scale, but probably. Is there anything he can do about it? No, so he eats his mush and moves on. That’s what he does, and it’s what Matt does, and it’s probably what Commander Holt does if he’s still alive to do it.

But his hunger isn’t sleeping anymore, no, it’s very much awake, and he’s stepping toward the plate before he registers that he’s moved at all. He can smell the dish from here – something like roasted lamb, with a salty-sweet underbelly that reminds him of the _gyūdon_ served in the shop neighboring his father’s old flat. He wants to get closer. He wants it in his hands, in his mouth and in his stomach. His gut clenches spastically, blood roaring in his ears. He’s hungry, and the hungry don’t dally when there is food to be eaten.

His movement forward is halted by a blinding tug on his lead. Light pops behind his eyelids as he is pulled backward face-first, neck twisting violently at the angle. Having such heavenly smelling food so close had purged his brain of his situation – of his handler, this new runner, and his very broken nose. He remembers them now, bloody spittle leaking from his lips when he instinctively whimpers from the pain.

“Stupid animal,” the runner grumbles, and Shiro can hear the irritation simmering underneath. He’s hit again on the back of the head, although this time it’s barely more than a swat. It still hurts plenty, particularly given the knocks he’s already endured today, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about a concussion. The runner continues, his hand punctuating every syllable. “Why can’t you just behave?”

It’s embarrassing, and it’s shameful, and it’s weak and pathetic and nauseating, but for the second time since exiting the Arena Shiro bows his head. He wants to back up or twist away, to somehow avoid the blows he knows he doesn’t deserve. He wants to be defiant, to hold his head up high and clench his fists and let the spark in his eyes blaze. And in the beginning, that’s exactly what he did. But…but he also doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does (he already hurts so much that some nights he weeps with it) and he so goddamn tired of fighting battles he never wins. So he bows his head and takes the abuse, flinching and whimpering and hoping the runner gets bored soon.

Eventually, the runner does, although not before Shiro’s skull feels heavy and tender with bruising. When Shiro peaks from beneath crusty bangs he notices that he’s back behind the runner now by about two paces. He watches as the Galran looks around. He almost seems impatient, although his bouncing armored foot speaks of nerves. It’s hard to believe that such discomfort used to prompt a feeling of vindication within him; now it just sends Shiro’s heart fluttering. Nothing that scares the Galra can mean anything good for him.

It’s that thought that heralds the opening of one set of grand, silver-accented doors to Shiro’s right. The Galran that steps through is utterly terrifying: an absolute tank of a creature, with ears like a bat and a nasty scar bisecting one eye, which has been replaced with a glowing prosthetic. His left arm is entirely metal except for the violet streaks of energy that connect the shoulder with the hulking, clawed forearm. Covered in armor as he is, the man looks like he’s half cyborg, and Shiro’s skin thrills with terror.

The Galran pivots as the heavy doors seal closed, eyes settling on Shiro with the malice of a predator spotting prey. Trussed up and leashed as he is, Shiro certainly feels the part. Doubly so when the man grins, revealing sharply glinting teeth that scream _carnivore._

“Champion,” the alien growls, so silky soft that it’s verging on a purr. It’s not a comforting sound in the least, and Shiro would probably be out the door already if he weren’t tethered to the spot. Instead, he simply shakes with fear, hands clenching and releasing rhythmically behind his back.

“My name is Commander Sendak,” the man continues, and holy shit, he’s a commander? Shiro hasn’t met any Galra higher than the average guard, and certainly no one as highly ranked as that. Another push of adrenaline rocks his system, bunching his muscles and begging him to run from the threat. “You have gained by attentions. Congratulations.”

Apparently fed up with terror, some hysterical voice in Shiro’s head giggles at the situation he’s found himself in. A giant purple space cat is congratulating him like he’s preformed a particularly difficult flight maneuver. The voice laughs louder. It sounds a lot like Matt.

Oblivious to Shiro’s brief inner hysteria, the man saunters over to the table, sitting down in the seat opposite the plate. When neither the runner nor Shiro make a move to follow, he smirks again and gestures at the laden seat. “Please, Champion, sit. We have much to discuss.”

With no better options, Shiro obeys, creeping closer like a stray dog to an outstretched treat. He pauses when he arrives at the chair; his hands are still tightly bound forearm to forearm behind his back, and the chair is flush with the edge of the table. One raised eyebrow from Sendak quickly remedies the situation: with a muted huff, the runner pulls out the seat, allowing Shiro to scoot in sideways and sit. Even with Shiro’s entire weight resting on the chair, the runner has no apparent problem pushing it in after him. The Galra are just effortlessly strong like that.

Sendak spends another moment seemingly admiring the sitting prisoner before him before redirecting his attention to the other Galran in the room. His eyes remain on Shiro. “Remove his bonds,” he orders, so casual the meaning almost passes Shiro by. “Then you are dismissed.”

Immediately, Shiro can feel the runner bristle beside him and he just barely manages to hold back his wince. Showing such weakness here is not a good idea, but it’s hard to simply ignore. “Sir,” he begins, although the honorific is dampened by the dangerous lack of respect in his voice. “The Champion has killed half a dozen opponents in the ring and wounded three times as many. Perhaps it would be better if-”

Sendak’s eyes finally flick up to the runner, and whatever is found there is enough to shut his maw midsentence. The next thing Shiro knows, the bonds biting into his arms are falling away, as is the heavy muzzle encasing his head. His nose howls as its crushed form is separated from the metal, so loud it nearly drowns out the runner’s retreating footsteps, but the freedom is nevertheless a heady relief. Shiro does his best not to sag with it as surreptitiously he rubs his wrists and wipes blood from his mouth and nose.

But he’s soon reminded of just what exactly he’s sitting in front of, other than the most highly ranked Galran he’s encountered so far: Food. So hot and crispy and salty and sweet that Shiro’s buzzing with it. Drooling, really, if he doesn’t figure out how to close his gaping mouth.

“Are you hungry, Champion?” Sendak asks, and even though Shiro’s eyes are locked on the platter he can still hear the smirk in his voice. He already knows the answer, if not from familiarity with the slaves’ conditions than from Shiro’s hollowed, sickly features.

Shiro nods anyway, because he is hungry, and he wants to eat, and if he’s good, if he plays this new Galran’s game, he might just get to. “Yes, sir,” he replies, controlling the urge to lick his lips. His eyes are still on the steaming meat, although this close he recognizes that there is some sort of roasted vegetables circling the cut. He ignores them for now, because God, the skin on the meat looks perfect – juicy and crunchy in a way that should be impossible but he knows isn’t.

“Good. We might just come to an agreement then. Would you like that?”

God, what an inane question. It’s obvious he’s being played with, like a cat with a mouse running between its paws. It’s terrifying and demeaning, but Shiro finds it hard to care with the roast-something filling his nostrils. “Yes, sir,” he repeats. The response hasn’t gotten him hit so far.

“Good,” Sendak purrs again, and the sound makes every tiny hair on Shiro’s sweaty neck raise like porcupine quills. “I’ve watched you fight. This last match was absolutely riveting. Your home world, it taught you the basics of combat, yes?”

Shiro blinks at the mention of Earth. Of the Garrison. Of goju-ryu lessons in Kyoto, aikido lessons in Osaka, muay Thai lessons in Phuket, judo lessons in LA, and krav maga lessons in Arizona City. Of sparring with Keith. Of “sparring” with Matt. “Yes, sir,” he says.

Sendak hums. “Your skill is proof enough, I suppose. Although-“ he slams his palm down on the table, rattling the plate and sending a spray of sauce into Shiro’s face. “I do so enjoy being looked at when I speak.”

Shiro flinches hard at the sudden noise, cringing into his seat when he realizes how hungrily he’s been staring at the food. God, he must look like a stray dog. He certainly feels like one. “Yes, sir,” he echoes, gulping as his eyes skirt up to meet Sendak’s. “Sorry, sir.”

Sendak nods, his lips peeled back into a slimy grin. He looks pleased at Shiro’s acquiescence. Shiro hopes his stupidity hasn’t just cost him a meal.

“As I said, very skilled,” Sendak continues, leaning back in his chair like he hadn’t just sent Shiro’s heart thundering. “Certainly skilled enough to win a few measly bets, hmm?”

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek, searching the Galran’s eyes. A not insignificant part of him wants to just say yes, to agree and let that be that so he can eat. But another part – the part raised and hardened by stardom at the Garrison – has a few questions. He just hopes that bit doesn’t get him hit.

“I suppose that would depend on the bet, sir,” he finally responds, his tone carefully inquisitive as opposed to assertive. Looking away in deference is an awful idea after Sendak’s last display, so other actions must make up the difference.

Sendak merely nods, his smile stretching wider. “Nothing too difficult, I assure you. Simply land the decisive blow on your next opponent’s ankle. That’s all.”

Shiro’s heart quickens. That’s it? He’s done the same thing dozens of times before. He doesn’t even have to kill the fighter, just maim him enough for the call to be made. Shiro takes a deep breath. “And if I do? Sir?”

Sendak uses both hands to gesture at the meat in front of them, his grin tweaking into a smirk. “Then you have the pleasure of enjoying another meal such as this, with the future possibility of more.” The man pauses, and Shiro loses himself enough to flick his eyes down to the feast once more. “Do we have a deal, then, Champion?”

In hindsight, Shiro will wish he had thought longer. That it had been difficult to sell himself like this, to agree to maim another innocent being at the behest of his captors. That it had pulled at his conscious. That it had felt bad at all.

But it doesn’t. Not when he is so hungry that he feels like he will fly apart at any moment. Not when there is food to be eaten, sitting right there in his lap.

Shiro is a stubborn bastard, and he never learns, and he is going to survive this even if it’s a monster that comes out the other end.

Shiro smiles, sharp and toothy and not nice at all.

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the writings of BossToaster, SassafrassRex, yet_intrepid, and Skalidra, (In particular, _Nobody Learns_ by SassafrassRex, _Who the Fuck Wants to Die Alone_ by yet_intrepid, and _Gone with the Fallen Leaves_ by BossToaster). If you haven't already, go read their work. It's honestly better. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this work and want to see more in this series, please leave a comment. Those mentioning favorite scenes/aspects/ideas, constructive criticism, and/or questions are highly appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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